


Three times Balthier met Ezio, and one time he never even saw him coming

by helpiamabug



Category: Assassin's Creed, Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:24:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helpiamabug/pseuds/helpiamabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even an assassin needs something worth fighting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three times Balthier met Ezio, and one time he never even saw him coming

**Author's Note:**

> written in the space of about 2 hours, so please forgive any serious errors! one of those things i just had to sit down and bang out.
> 
> standard disclaimer applies, aka: none of the characters are mine, no profit is being mine, plz to not sue!

Balthier supposes it would have been ridiculous for other would-be thieves not to have had the same idea as they did, that is: to sneak into the palace during Vayne's banquet and steal various precious artifacts directly out from under the insufferable bastard's nose. What he was not expecting, however, was who - or rather what - awaited them in the palace vault. Not even he could miss the sweet, oily scent of the smokeweed that curled away from the stranger's robes as Fran wrinkles her nose with distaste and pulls them further back into the shadows and murmurs into Vaan's ear - Vaan's surprise was a tangible thing in the dark room, and not that Balthier could blame him.

Even in Archades he remembers growing up hearing about the Hashashiyyin and how they would come in the night to take away naughty children who didn't mind their mothers, and later, hearing worse stories about the legendary army of King Raithwall, the silent killers in the night who came to poison and strangle the enemies of the crown, who lived in the shadows and never left a trace of evidence behind. He, like Vaan, thought the Order had long since been disbanded, melded into the worst habits of the Westersand and disappeared into the fringes of society. This fellow, however, was clear evidence otherwise. He was tall and tan and swarthy, clad in long white robes with a slit skirt for riding - and he absolutely bristled with armaments. Bands of throwing knives hung from his shoulders, crossbow strapped to his back, a mace and a double edged sword swung from an ornately wrought swordbelt clinking delicately against vials of what must be the traditional poisons of the Hashashiyyin. The man had the hood of his cloak pulled forward to obscure his features so that all Balthier could see was his heavily stubbled chin and a soft, sensual mouth made imperfect by a deep scar running across the upper lip, which he traced absentmindedly with one finger as he contemplated the treasure in his other hand.

The shard.

Balthier starts despite himself - and then curses his stupidity doubly as his hip dislodges a golden cup from the shelf near him and sets it clanking and rolling down the path. The Hashashiyyin whirls and falls back into a fighting stance, blades snicking out from his bracers as he makes his way down the aisle cautiously - and then Fran steps out into his path, arrow nocked on the string, and raises her head in greeting, Vaan and Balthier behind her with weapons drawn. Suddenly the whole world twists _sideways_ as the Leviathan's cannons fire on the castle and the back wall of the treasury is vaporized. Balthier feels the sting of shrapnel flying into his leg and chest as the airship fires again; he can hear screaming from far below, but he cannot tear his eyes away from the assassin even as Fran tugs at his arm and Vaan dives for cover against the next fusilade of the cannons. The assassin's gaze goes slack for a moment, and all of a sudden it feels like the assassin is looking into the deepest recesses of his mind, judging him - he reels back and cocks his gun, lifting it to fire - and freezes as the assassin tosses the shard at his feet, lip curling up in a smirk as he turns and melts back into the darkness among the hall of treasures.

Vaan bends and tucks the shard into his pocket, chin raised defiantly, and leaps over the broken stones into the courtyard. Fran follows, pausing for a moment to look back at Balthier as he stands frozen, gun still pointing at where the assassin was only a moment before. The Leviathan fires again and Balthier dives after his companions, and does not spare the assassin a backwards glance.  
___

Vayne has his tentacles deep into the Judges indeed if public executions are a workaday sight in Archades, Balthier thinks.

The assassin is bound and disarmed, and his hood pulled back to expose his face so that Balthier blinks in surprise at how young he looks, handsome even with a black eye and bloodied lip, his long dark tail of hair hanging untended behind him. The assassin still stands proudly, and even without his weapons he exudes a palpable air of menace and disorder. Balthier pauses for a moment to listen as the Hoplite reads the charges against the man for all to hear in the public square: breaking and entering, stealing Imperial secrets, sabotage, attempted bribe of Imperial heralds, public indecency - perhaps, Balthier reflects, he broke into Draklor and pissed all over his father's plans. By the gods, he hopes so.

He is brought sharply to attention by the Hoplite savagely pushing the assassin to his knees, and placing the tip of that gods-damned Archadian steel against his throat. Without even thinking he has unholstered his gun and has it trained on the executioner's back - but Fran digs her claws into his wrist and holds him as she smells the air, her ears swiveling towards the sky. The very moment before the sword would pierce his throat, the assassin throws his head back and gives a feral cry - Balthier knows it, has heard it before - the cry of a hunting falcon. He barely blinks, he is sure of it, but suddenly the air is filled with arrows raining down on the assassin's captors. The square is suddenly filled with dozens of whirling dervishes in white - Balthier can hardly track them as the Hashashiyyin dance in and then away from the guards, flying from the ramparts like vengeful ghosts to bury their blades in the backs of the Imperial soldiers. The stranger from the vault, however, appears to have things well in hand - or at the very least, looks breezily comfortable as he snaps the neck of his would-be executioner and leaps from the grandstand to bury his knee in the back of another guard and garrotes him with his own bandolier.

Just as breathlessly as they came, the assassins are gone, and Balthier and Fran are left alone in the square surrounded by dead Imperial guards and their former prisoner, who straightens from rifling through a guard's pockets and turns, notices the two of them (Balthier with his eyebrows in his hairline and his gun hanging forgotten from his hand) and sketches a lazy salute before he runs straight up the wall behind him, his fingers finding impossible purchase, and dips out of sight across the rooftops of Archades.

___

The next time Balthier meets the assassin, Reddas is dead and they are both blind drunk. Balfonheim is as good a place as any to mourn his losses, and anyway, enough people in the city owe him money or information (or are smart enough to suspect exactly who he and Reddas were, and who - what - they were running from when they first came to the port those many years ago) that they owe him a beer or two. Or, in his case, twenty. He can't feel his hands by the time he lifts his head from the bar and sights the young man in white sitting at a table in the corner. The assassin's hood is pulled back and his face is crumpled and hopeless, and Balthier can't help himself from ordering two glasses of Reddas's favorite whiskey and stumbling over to his table. He throws himself into the seat and gestures to the second glass, pillowing his head on his arms.

The assassin lifts his head up from the table and focuses on Balthier for a moment - even drunk, his gaze is laser sharp and ancient, and a strange feeling of otherness surrounds him. He grasps the whiskey and pours it down his throat before he gestures to himself: 'Ezio.' he says, his accent thick and strange - Rozarrian, perhaps - 'I'm sorry. Reddas, he was a friend of yours, no?' It's all Balthier can do to keep his last beer down at the memory of Reddas haloed by the Sun Chryst as he ground it to dust, and he doesn't bother to reply. Ezio simply grunts, and reaches across the table, raises his glass and knocks it against Balthier's. 'I tried - ' Balthier begins, 'I wanted - ' and then stops. What is it, exactly, that he did to protect Reddas? The answer is nothing. Instead he brought trouble to his doorstep, forced his hand and used Reddas's vendetta against the Empire to serve his own ends. He lied and stole and every time that misfortune brought him limping back to Balfonheim, Reddas welcomed him with open arms - and Balthier paid his kindness back with a miserable death. He can't breathe, suddenly, and the whiskey curdles in his throat - Balthier tries to mask his sob in his sleeve, but he fails, and he cannot stop the tears that roll down his cheeks. Ezio simply watches him for a moment, and then pulls up the sleeves of his robe. Both of his forearms are branded with the traditional garif script - a simple prayer for the dead that each child in all of Ivalice knows by heart, and curling under the script are initials in thick rows that spiral down to his wrists. The assassin traces the tattoos with a finger, and looks up at Balthier. 'I never forget,' he says. 'No matter how many die. I never forget.'

They drink in silence for hours, it feels like, until his vision is double and the air around him seems honey thick. Balthier is surprised to find that at some point Ezio has laced their fingers together across the table, their wrists brushing against the empty bottle of whiskey. Despite the callouses on his palm from the sword hilt and the gun Ezio's skin is smooth and comforting and Balthier tightens his grip, and lets the drunken haze bear him into slumber.

___

Balthier is back in Archades gathering information for Queen Ashe when Jules brings him a message from Leonardo da Vinci - He and Leo were at the Akademy together, and after Balthier left Archades he followed the meteoric rise of his friend's career through Draklor and out into Archadian society. Rumor has it that after the untimely demise of Cidolphus Bunansa, Leonardo da Vinci became a pacifist, refusing to use his considerable genius to build war machines and instead planning aquaducts and building cheap portable generators that even the poorest in Lowtown can afford. Balthier knows the truth, though, which is that free from Cid's domineering grasp the engineer dedicated himself to repairing the damage that Draklor had caused over the years, and loves him all the more for it.

He lets himself into Leonardo's apartment in Molberry - Balthier used to laugh at how he could build incredible machines, but never remember to lock his own front door - now it seems simply a dangerous habit, and he reminds himself to mention it forcefully to Leo over dinner, and set his streetears to keeping an eye on the poor fool. He heads toward the study without calling out - and steps back into the shadows.

Ezio is lying in a patch of sunlight on the floor of Leonardo's study, shirtless and unarmed except for his bracers . He is utterly boneless and soft, the deep lines smoothed away from around his mouth, one arm thrown up over his forehead to protect his eyes from the sun. Leonardo is sat over him, sketch pad in hand, and Balthier can see over his shoulder he is drawing a study of the assassin's hand shading his eyes, each slender finger a study in perfection on the paper. Ezio isn't asleep, Balthier realizes, but gazing up at Leo, and even from the hallway he can see the aquiline focus of the assassin is fond and intent and smouldering, not the usual fierce, terrifying gaze of a man who knows infinite ways to cause pain but rather sweet and searching as if Ezio is attempting to memorize Leo's face. Ezio reaches across to slide his hand up the engineer's instep and laughs as Leonardo kicks him gently and scolds him for ruining his concentration. The assassin surges up from the floor and drags him down - tucks Leonardo carefully against his body, slotting him into place just so, scattering charcoal and paper and pressing kisses to his temple - Balthier steps back and presses his head against the cool marble of the hallway for a moment before he creeps out of Leonardo's apartment, locking the door behind him.

He takes the long way back to Basch's apartment in Lowtown, long enough that the shadows are soft and deep on the alley walls before he realizes how late it is. When he gets back, there's a familiar bottle of extremely expensive whiskey sitting on Basch's living room table with a note tucked under it - just a crude sketch of a falcon diving. Basch is curled up on his couch, still wearing his boots, a case study drooping from his fingers towards the floor and a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, ice clinking against the carved crystal as he sets it down and looks warily up at Balthier. He remembers those glasses - remembers Noah's big hands dwarfing them so many years ago as they drank to his appointment to Judge Magister, remembers sweeping them off the Judge's desk in disgust and rage and impotence when his father abandonded him to Draklor and the Akademy, and how tightly he held that glass in his hand the night he heard of King Raminas's murder, alone in Lowtown, Noah gone and no note to explain his absence. Balthier thinks he could explain very carefully to Leonardo all the things that Ezio has done, how the blood on the assassin's hands will never come clean - but he pauses, and looks at Basch, and knows that he will never breathe a word of what Ezio truly is to anyone. After all, even an assassin needs something worth fighting for.


End file.
